


The Devil May Care

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Incest (or, uh, "Wincest" as I've seen it called on the boards), violence, various kinks, strong language, sharp objects, sharp wit, hell beasties, hot boys with stupid haircuts and that sort of thing. Scary.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

The Devil May Care

Title: The Devil May Care  
Author: Hellskitten  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing: S/D  
Rating: NC-17 (this is not your grandmother’s slash)  
Warnings: Incest (or, uh, “Wincest” as I’ve seen it called on the boards), violence, various kinks, strong language, sharp objects, sharp wit, hell beasties, hot boys with stupid haircuts and that sort of thing. Scary.   
Spoilers: Some, but this is mostly AU.  
Disclaimer: Yada, yada, WB owns the characters, yada, yada, can’t take money or credit for them, yada, yada. This show should be on cable. Then we could really have some fun.  
  
Sam doesn’t sleep on his back anymore. Ceilings have come to bug him out. So, even though the inside of the Impala’s roof isn’t technically a ceiling, he’s still turned on his side along the back seat.   
  
Staring at the battered leather behind the driver’s seat, he listens to Dean breathing in his sleep. Sam likes that soft, throaty rattle—likes it a lot. It calls up memories from his boyhood and from a few short nights ago—memories that would even make the devil blush. Hot nights panting in sheets damp with sweat and spunk, determined fingers seeking silky crevices of flesh to touch. Wet lips burning against tense, throbbing body parts with way too many nerve endings. And that smell . . . the buttery, home-cooked, spring-grass scent of Dean’s various body fluids. Sam loved that smell. Some people were comforted by a whiff of their mother’s perfume—Sam Winchester liked the warm, edible scent of his brother’s semen.   
  
Lying there on his side, he realizes his mouth is full of saliva. Sam swallows, licks his lips and takes a deep breath that he holds to amplify the silence in the car. He can hear his own heart beating steady and slow. And he can hear Dean breathing only a few feet away, stretched out and vulnerable in his sleep behind the Chevy’s wheel. They’d wanted to pull over just for a little while, catch some shut eye then keep on going. But Sam can’t sleep. His mind won’t let his body rest.  
  
Closing his eyes, he lets out the breath he’d been holding and turns over onto his other side. Now facing the worn leather of the back seat cushion, he licks his lips again and finds the flesh of them hot and swollen. No surprise, really. Ever since he and Dean had been together again, they’d got right back up to their old tricks. The Winchester boys were nothing if not reliable.  
  
Sam lets his mind take over and run wild with those unruly, secret memories. Their images play out in the darkness behind his eyelids—quick flashes of skin and wet hair, eyes glassy with lust, sweat, sighs, slippery, salty things . . . everywhere.   
  
As the dawn begins to gray the scrubby woods beyond the road where they sit parked, Sam feels himself relax into those images in his head. His lips burn and his cock twitches in his day-old shorts, but these things are distant sensations at best. The images in his mind have grown depth and echoey sound, textures and scents, and they’re carrying him down, down . . . down.   
  
When Dean’s eyes open suddenly in the front seat, Sam has just slipped into the cradle of a burning wet dream.  
  
  
  
  
Rubbing at the sleep in his eyes, Dean Winchester blinks into the dim gray morning. He freezes for a moment, listening and looking around, gauging the status of their perimeter. Other than a jackrabbit gnawing the fresh leaves off a sapling near the edge of the road, there isn’t much going on. Dean glances at his watch and frowns at how short his nap was. Still, he feels better—like he can drive without passing out.   
  
He sits up slowly and stretches his neck, wincing at the kinks in his shoulders and lower back. He fell asleep in a weird position, slumped half way down in the seat with his right kneecap pressed hard into the drive shaft. Yes, there was already a bruise there. He could feel it even without touching it. He sighs, then turns to look into the back seat where Sam is stretched out along the bench. His brother’s right arm is wrapped around his waist and the long fingers twitch softly against his denim jacket as he sleeps. Dean eyes Sam’s digits more closely and his lips tilt in a half grin. There’s dirt under those nails. Probably some carpet fibers, too. Thinking of how those things got under his brother’s fingernails makes Dean’s cock throb in his jeans. Usually a pleasant sensation, this time that throbbing serves only to underscore his need for a good long piss.  
  
The morning air is cold and wet but he breathes in deeply, anyway. In an effort to let Sam sleep, Dean is careful not to slam the Impala’s heavy door. Instead, he just lets it rest closed but leaves it unlatched.   
Scratching his fingers through is short hair, he yawns, stretches his arms up toward the gray sky. His spine pops noisily in two places, but the result is good. Two less kinks to worry about.  
  
For a moment, Dean just stands there next to the car and watches that jackrabbit chomping leaves. The rabbit pays him no attention; he’s got better things to do. The fact that such a small, defenseless creature regards him as absolutely zero threat does annoy Dean for a split second. Just long enough for his brow to crumple into a frown, and then he’s over it. His full bladder has become considerably urgent.   
  
Peering into the sparse trees beside the road, he walks around the back of the car and steps into the woods. This stretch of highway is worse than barren—they’d remarked only a few hours ago how they hadn’t seen another car since the sun went down. Dean feels pretty confident that no one’s around to catch sight of his manhood while he takes a leak. Not that he’d mind, really. He was pretty damned proud of said manhood.   
  
Finding a tree that looks in need of a little drink, Dean inches down his fly. His cock feels heavy and hot in his hand and he has to concentrate a little before he can start to urinate. Once the flow begins, though, he can’t help but let out a soft groan of pleasure. There’s nothing like that first piss in the morning. Sometimes, it’s better than sex.  
  
Leaning against that tree, Dean closes his eyes and gets lost momentarily in his tingling tackle. When the arms slide around his waist from behind, his heart jumps and he flinches, trying to spin around to see who’s accosted him. However, the assailant has a firm grasp of his torso.  
  
“What the fuck--?” He wriggles and lunges, accidentally hosing down the inside of his left pant leg.  
  
“Shhhhh,” Sam says against his ear, still holding on but only tight enough to keep control. “Take it easy. It’s me.” He slides his chin onto Dean’s shoulder and presses his cheek into his brother’s hot neck.  
  
Angry, Dean bangs his jawbone into Sam’s forehead, but he continues to empty his bladder.   
  
“Ow!” Sam flinches back.  
  
“Fucker. You scared the shit outta me. I didn’t hear you get outta the car.”  
  
“The door was open.”  
  
Dean sighs, annoyed that he’d been so considerate of Sam’s sleep. He rolls his eyes. And then he feels hot, silky fingers join his own around the shaft of his cock. The messages his brain had been sending to his sexual organs fry in mid-communication and his urine stream stops. Sam’s fingers wind around his cock and rub very gently, up and back, until the blood starts to rush in, lengthening it, heating it. Dean moans and leans back against his brother’s body.   
  
“Don’t stop,” Sam whispers, the tip of his index finger sliding over the wet slit at the tip of Dean’s cock. “I love watching you piss. That’s why I came out here.” His teeth graze Dean’s ear not at all gently, making the older Winchester shiver all over.   
  
“Can’t piss through a hard-on,” he hisses through clenched teeth, pressing his ass backward into Sam’s groin. Dean can feel the hot rod of flesh there underneath the Levi denim.   
  
“Sure you can,” Sam breathes. “You just gotta concentrate.” Again, those teeth graze his earlobe, nipping it roughly, tugging it as though he means to chew it off. But he won’t. Sam likes to bite, but not to draw blood.  
  
Dean tries to relax, breathes in deep and exhales slowly. Eyes closed, his head drops back into Sam’s shoulder. Those teeth still tug at his ear and those long fingers continue their gentle stroking, but he concentrates . . . and eventually overrides his body’s instinct. He can feel Sam watching as he finishes his task, but Dean doesn’t open his eyes. He breathes and listens as the steady stream of fluid hits the dead leaves beneath his feet, sinks in, melds with the earth below. He grins a little as his vivid and over-experienced imagination conjures a picture of Satan at his breakfast table suddenly getting hit on the head with strange drops of moisture from above. Not that there is a Satan, but still—it’s a funny thought.  
  
If Satan did exist and he was standing right there beside them in those woods, what would he say? Would he approve of these two brothers fondling each other’s private parts and gaining so damned much enjoyment from it? Would he be happy to see such wickedness flourishing? Or would he be disappointed by the limitations these creatures were showing? Would he wish they would do more, go further, be badder? Dean wonders that, too—sometimes. He wonders about the depth of sexual depravity he and young Sam might sink to if they would only set their minds to it.  
  
“There . . .” Sam whispers against his ear, as though he can hear Dean’s thoughts. “Doesn’t that . . . feel good?” Those long fingers grow more insistent as they wrap around Dean’s stiffening cock. His bladder is empty now and all that’s left is this hard-on and his brother’s stroking hand.   
  
“As a matter of fact,” Dean replies in nothing more than breath. “That feels fucking great.” His head rolls to the left on Sam’s shoulder and he raises his hips into the stroking touch. “Harder, Sammy . . . get a good grip. Yeah . . . that’s it . . . nice and slow.” He sighs as he feels his nipples tighten and the hairs on the back of his neck spike up. Sam must be aware of this, too, because his free hand slides under Dean’s t-shirt and caresses his taut belly all the way up to his chest. Once those fingertips hit Dean’s nipples, he hears himself moan like a virgin on prom night. Damn, he is so sensitive this morning. Sam could pretty much do whatever the hell he wanted and Dean would probably just go with it.  
  
Well, to a point. There was always that point where the line got drawn.  
  
Sam’s breath hit Dean’s neck in a hot blast and then there was a moment of cool air up Dean’s back, accompanied by the soft jingle of a belt buckle. A second later, he feels Sam’s naked belly pressing against the small of his back—skin that was cool at first, bursting into blood heat on contact. He feels the intense fever and slick wetness of Sam’s cock as it shudders in the curve of his spine. Sam doesn’t need much stimulation usually, just a little pressure—and then he’s off. Especially when they’re both really, really hot like now. The touch alone is good enough for his horny little brother, but Dean . . . needs a little more incentive.  
  
He knows Sam is well versed in touching him. Sam knows just what to do and where to do it and how long to do it, so Dean settles back against him and just lets Sam drive. He sighs into the wet pressure against his back, smiling a little at the throbbing heartbeat he feels in his brother’s burning cock. Slight scratch of silky pubes, warm press of tense balls just above his belt. Nice. Dean knows better than to reach back and touch that trembling erection. Sam would only smack his hand away. Instead, he waits for the inevitable pumping spray against his skin. Sam comes really hard first thing in the morning.  
  
Suddenly, Dean’s knees threaten to give out on him and he grabs for the rough tree trunk beside him. Sam’s fingers have moved to the deadly sensitive tip of his cock and they’re teasing the manic nerve endings there. Dean feels his balls tighten and draw up toward his body and he trembles when his cock kicks and squirts hot lubricant over Sam’s fingers. Every inch of his flesh skitters with goose bumps. Oh yeah . . . any second now. He hears himself gasping as all his muscles grow tight. He mutters something he knows Sam will understand and then he focuses on the touch that’s driving him so blissfully insane.   
  
Sam’s fingertips flick and stroke very gently around the glands at the tip of Dean’s weeping cock, tracing and retracing the twitching veins and anxious bundles of nerves. Dean can feel Sam’s grip sliding precariously on all the pre-come he’s leaking. This makes him smile, too. And then he finds he can’t really breathe without making some sort of growling noise. Deep, hard vibrations rattle his guts from way down and his anus tingles deliciously. Pressing back into Sam’s taller, harder body, Dean clenches his teeth as the orgasm hits—tearing through him with hell-bent velocity.   
  
In that same instant, he feels his brother’s heart hammering against his shoulders and lower back and then Sam starts growl-panting like a feral dog. They rock together, riding out the zinging spasms like two parts of a dark, grinding machine. Dean feels sweat on his lower back, mixing with the sweat on Sam’s silky belly. So much wetness back there. It’s only a matter of time until he feels the first hot drops of seed track down over his tailbone into his underwear.  
  
Sam breathes hard against him, pressing his hot forehead into the nape of Dean’s neck. The hand he had up Dean’s shirt pets the skin again, flits over his nipples that are now too sensitive to be touched, then drops down to Dean’s hip where it holds on.   
  
“Damn,” Sam says, shaking his head to clear it.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean concurs. “That was fun. Except for the heart attack part at the beginning.”  
  
“Get over it, wuss.”  
  
Sam straightens behind him, staggering a little under his older brother’s weight until Dean stands on his own feet again. Dean reaches around and under his shirt to capture a warm drop of the creamy fluid puddled there. When his finger hits his tongue, he turns to Sam and lifts his eyebrows appreciatively.   
  
“Mmm. But you need to drink more water, little brother.”  
  
Sam offers one nod, trying to catch his breath. “I’ll get right on that.”  
Dean adjusts himself and hitches up his jeans, glancing suspiciously once again at the sparse trees surrounding them. He doesn’t feel watched necessarily, this is just a habit. But if someone had been there to watch, what an eyeful they would’ve got. While he scans the local scrub, he has a thought.  
  
Turning to his brother once again, Dean says, “I jerk off all the time. Why is that when YOU do it to me, it feels so much better?”  
  
Sam breathes a laugh, running those talented fingers through his moppy brown hair. “I must have better technique.”  
  
Dean frowns. “What the fuck does that mean? It’s MY dick. You think you know how to touch it better than I do?”  
  
Sam just looks at him. “Dude, you said it—not me.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t mean . . .” Dean huffs an irritated sigh and turns to head back to the car. He hears Sam clomping on the dead leaves a few paces behind him and once again he has the image of a cloven-hooved Satan glowering up at the ceiling in his breakfast nook. The upstairs neighbors make a lot of fuckin’ noise.  
  
This makes him laugh again as he slips in behind the wheel of the Chevy. Sam lands in the passenger seat, slams the door and looks at his brother curiously. “What’s funny now?”  
  
“Your face,” Dean returns.  
  
Sam just rolls his eyes. “One minute I’m the King of All Handjobs and the next minute you’re rippin’ shit on me again.”  
  
“One has zilch to do with the other,” Dean says, pulling the car keys out of his jacket pocket. With them comes a few scraps of paper, mostly gum and hard candy wrappers. Dean is big on diner mints—always grabs a handful of them on their way out after yet another roadside meal. These wrappers remind him that he’s hungry and he puts the key into the ignition. “I need hash browns,” he declares and pulls out onto the deserted road.  
  
He hears Sam sigh next to him, then slump down on the bench seat and close his eyes. Dean watches the road but also watches his brother in his peripheral vision. Ever since Sam came back, Dean has felt compelled to keep an eye on him. Not because Sam might get hurt, but because Dean can feel that he’s hiding something.  
  
Problem is, Dean has no earthly clue what that might be.  
  
That bugs him more than anything. Sam never used to hide stuff when they were kids. All through boyhood, they were thick as thieves. But ever since Jessica’s death, the kid’s been a wall of mystery.  
  
Checking the rearview mirror out of reflex, Dean frowns when he sees no cars behind them or ahead. They have half a tank of gas and some good maps, so Dean’s not concerned about where the day might take them.  
  
It’s the night that worries him most.  
  
(the end)


End file.
